


like paint in my veins, like a work of art (you move the depths of my heart)

by betteronpaper



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/F, Introspection, Second POV, basically just clarke reflecting on lexa, canon AU, its just a little something, kinda a character study i guess?, who is not dead dw
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-10
Updated: 2016-04-10
Packaged: 2018-06-01 09:07:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6512134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/betteronpaper/pseuds/betteronpaper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>clarke thinks of lexa, thinks of how if there was ever a masterpiece, that of art, human embodied - it's lexa.</p>
            </blockquote>





	like paint in my veins, like a work of art (you move the depths of my heart)

**Author's Note:**

> so this is something i've had in my folder for about a year, and i'm posting it just because i wanted something out there while i finish up the next part to conspiracy of the universe fic. figured people might enjoy it! having re-read it, and updated 'ark' to arkadia, it fits in with the conspiracy of the universe fic, coincidentally enough. so consider this as part of that verse aha, though the style is different
> 
> darlingheda.tumblr.com

              You love art, you admire it – it is diverse and as complex as people, as life. Art to you has always been about emotions. Whether or not a piece, something, a scenery, is aesthetically pleasing is really only a minor detail, as it is a matter of preferences – although, you admit, you can find it displeasing, and yet appreciate the work. But for you, what matters is whether it makes you _feel_ something, on a profound, deep and moving level. It is similar to attraction, to love, in this way.

              Nothing has ever moved you quite like her.

 

              If Lexa were art – and she is, in your mind – she would be a masterpiece.

           

              You hadn’t thought to draw in what felt like years, but when you walked into her tent the first time and saw her sitting on her throne, regal, enigmatic, all dark, dangerous and wild looking in a controlled, calculated way with eyes piercing…powerful and the ground embodiment, well, you would have liked to capture that; would have liked to give in to the little itch to sketch had your mind not been focused on more pressing and important things.

 

              And she is beautiful. From the beginning, that was undeniable.

 

              Upon reflection, close inspection, it is when she tells you of her own lost, past love, that you feel touched, moved deeply for the first time by her; that you feel this woman, this seemingly strong, great commander (who tells you love is weakness) is the most beautiful creature you’ll ever meet, and that you are looking at art – _true_ art that caresses the soul.

 

              Because she is, inwardly, deeply vulnerable; and she has shown you a glimpse of this, has gifted it to you. And that is the most precious, marvellous thing. And when you back her into a table and she shows you again, when she confesses weakness (not everyone, not you) and later admits trust and kisses you reverently, as if _you_ were art, were precious and something holy, you are deeply affected.

 

              Lexa is art, a masterpiece of a human being, a subject of poetry and passion, which people of history would write songs and novels over, fought in wars over. You think the fact that she is a broken, lonely burdened soul – so similar to you, that cements this. The fact that despite her walls, her lines, her disguise, which she does so well in performing yet you see through it – you think these things makes her breathtaking.

 

              Because she can be so hard, so stoic and logical and guarded by armour and war paint, and seem so immovable as the ground itself as a wild thing that when she is gentle with you, when she is tender and hesitant, with eyes of forest and earth that give all too much away…when she is _vulnerable_ , in a deep, profound way unlike any other, well, you’re entire world has shifted. You are falling.

 

              You knew you were at least a tiny bit in love with her when she shattered your heart at the base of a mountain and essentially left you for dead, along with your people. You had to be. How else would it _hurt_ so damn much? So, you were falling. How could you not? Lexa is beautiful; she is art, is wild and earthly and precious, so very brave and burdened. And she had betrayed you. And later, much later, you know she had betrayed herself too – because she loved you, _loved_ you. And she had to leave you; became heartless, having left her heart with you. She feels too much, more than you – and that is sweet, is achingly soulful and tragic. The effort to control feelings is a hard, harsh and destructing process. You are brave and foolish to wear yours on your sleeve, but she is strong in a way you have never seen. And it’s a type of suffering that builds character, and a quiet hope. All this, you had pondered later.

 

              But back then you had a mountain to destroy and had no time to wonder and deal with such treacherous and treasonous things as emotions.

 

              You had time enough later, though.

 

              Lexa is patient, is quiet, is kind. These traits contribute largely to Lexa’s beauty, with her tenderness. They helped greatly with your eventual forgiveness, with your eventual readiness to openly love her.

 

              There are many moments when you think she is stunning, when she moves something in you, deep and ingraining, has you feeling immense and powerful things. Such feelings could arise from the smallest of things, too, the smallest of moments. There’s a moment when she huffs a soft breath against your neck, and her hair is loose and wonderful, and she is warm on top of you as she nudges her nose along your cheek, kisses your face, and the tenderness could almost break you.

 

               It doesn’t, though. But your heart feels all too large with love – and that could almost be the same thing.

 

               There is another moment when she is training in a field, on her lonesome as you watch beneath a tree, sketching. She is dancing, you think, with her graceful and swift movements and the blade is all but an extension of her, as a paintbrush or pencil is to you. She comes back to you a little breathless, a little sweaty, and you make room for her as she lay between your legs, with her head upon your chest, kissing above your breasts, all comfortable, soft and warm. You read to her and she listens, asks about things and she is very adorable and sweet then; because she knows so very much of the current world and so very little of the old, and it’s very endearing, very charming, to you; you fall in love with her even more, in those moments. And when she makes a crown of flowers for you, when she dances with you slow and steady at celebrations or feasts – or even in just the quietness of your room, candlelit and without music (she hums) – you fall in love with her a little more then, too.

 

               She is very dramatic, in a way; sometimes, and very respectful. She has never pressured you, always patient of your wants and needs. It is why it is you that proposes marriage, a union. You do it in a very casual manner, very simply, talked about it quietly. It was during one of those tender moments: it was a lazy afternoon and the sun glowed warmly, tiredly, through the material that formed privacy and barriers to the outside world, casting the room a soft gold. She was looking at you in that way, that entire world and universe way – like you were the masterpiece, and yes, you had long known she was your forever. It was the natural progression of things, and yet was really only a formality to the world because in both your hearts of hearts and souls of souls you were each other’s.

 

               You have drawings all over your residences, both in Polis, your home, and at in Arkadia, your rooms across villages. You have sketched, have painted, have drawn her, for years. You don’t think you ever do her justice, but she still seems surprised to find how you view at her, that awe-struck way of her, and you melt.

 

               You think back to all that time ago when she kissed you in that tent, when you were so young, and oh, how so many things have changed. Even your love has changed, though that has only grown, has become more. But one thing had never changed, and that was Lexa, as art, as a masterpiece and so, so _human_. Together, she says you are poetry. You agree.

**Author's Note:**

> darlingheda.tumblr.com


End file.
